


Colourblind

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance doesn't have a tie anymore.  Mirror to "Clockwork."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colourblind

  
Lance doesn't have his tie anymore, because he used it to truss up JC.    
It was this sick, twisted, almost-funny moment: Lance pressing JC into  
the topiary, whispering porn and lashing him to an overhanging branch  
with a necktie.  Fucking sexy in a way Joey's still trying to sort  
out.

The wide-eyed, scurrying event planners who put this particular party  
together are definitely going to their very own version of heaven.  In  
the spirit of thinking outside the box, they actually moved the whole  
thing out of New York City.  An hour and a half by limo convoy to this  
tangle of Westchester brick and ivy and water.  Every legal chemical  
extant is on offer inside, the music doesn't suck, and the great  
outdoors beckons.

He wonders whether Lance has been here before, or whether he's finding  
his way by instinct.  Lance pulled Joey out of the party after an  
hour, kissed him in the rain.  Warm wind and water soaking both their  
jackets.  He followed where Lance pulled him and wound up knee deep in  
a lake, kissing his way down toward his boyfriend's heart.  One of his  
rolled-up pantlegs slid down into the water, and the rain pooled in  
their shoes, and he didn't care.  

There are other people in the garden, but they're mostly making out or  
just quietly fucking against convenient walls.  No one even looked at  
them until JC did.  And JC's tied and quiet now, waiting for the next  
knight in shining armour, with or without princess in tow, to let him  
loose.

Lance kisses him in the shadow of the house, in the lake, between the  
hedges, under a dozen big trees, against a potting shed whose dirty  
windows don't quite reflect the lights from the house.  Joey kisses  
Lance every ten steps across the lawn, under the balcony, on a log at  
the lake's edge, against the dark french doors.  Tongue in his mouth,  
lips moving across his face.  Touching him quietly, under his clothes  
and along his back.  Warm hands on his hips pushing him inside.

Everything's unlocked.  There's so little personality he thinks no one  
must live here at all.  It's just a house, permanently full of  
anonymous people playing hide-and-seek-and-fuck in the dark.

Upstairs, there are suites with no locks on the doors and no personal  
touches.  Some pieces of furniture have sheets thrown over them.    
There are all the necessary beds, and sometimes there are soft breath  
sounds coming from behind closed doors.

Joey has fantasies about being able to curl up with Lance in a corner  
of the real party, away downstairs, and kiss him quietly all night.    
He remembers Anna Kournikova spread across Enrique Iglesias' lap,  
close to losing her pants and smiling down at him, and yeah, there are  
pictures of that, but just for Rolling Stone.  Tabloids'll save the  
shot to doctor for her next rumour.  But he remembers the Oscar party  
they went to last year, where actresses just settled on top of their  
husbands in chairs and held perfectly normal conversations with people  
and reporters, and nobody cared.

Joey's stupid, because he wants these things and he makes decisions  
that ensure he won't get them.

In this particular guestroom, it's dark and the lights won't come on.    
Joey thinks there might not even be bulbs in the sockets.  He likes  
it.  He can hear it raining -- the water hitting glass is louder than  
the music.  Or different, at least.  The rain's somewhere up in tenor  
range; the music is bass.  It slides through Lance's voice, whispering  
soft affection to him.

Naked skin against his shirt whispers in the middle of the kiss.    
Their clothes are soaking wet.  Everything smells like cologne and wet  
wool and skin.  Lance tastes citrus-y -- something he drank earlier,  
lemon twisted into rum and coke.  He rubs Joey's stomach, tracing  
muscle-shapes under the soft flesh.  Hooks a finger in Joey's navel  
and twists until he feels it.

Kinky, sexy, sneaky fucker.

Possibly the hottest fucking thing he's ever touched.  Lance is quiet  
on his feet, fast out of a chair, and soft and smart on his back.  He  
fits into Joey's body every time they're close enough to touch.    
Kisses him every time no one's looking.  Joey knows the taste of the  
palm of Lance's hand as well as he knows the taste of his mouth.

Wrapped around kissing him, rubbing down his side.  If Joey was  
braver, he'd have gone digging through one of the bathrooms in this  
shell of a house until he found something slick enough to let them  
fuck.  Without it, they're only touching.  Close and slow and sweet,  
both of them on their sides, Joey's thigh between Lance's.  And Lance  
may be the engineer of their universe, but this, at least, is  
something Joey created.  He taught them this, how to make sex last for  
hours.  Slow and dirty make-out sessions as good as or better than  
sex.

He remembers Lance at eighteen, shirtless and wrapped around him,  
growling at him to hurry up and *fuck* already.  What he looked like  
when Joey held him down and kissed his throat and laughed at him.

Lance's fingers are in Joey's mouth when the door opens.  Wrapped up  
so tight that Joey isn't totally sure which legs are his, it feels so  
fucking good.  He sees it first, twitches, feels Lance still and  
tense.  He goes to look, but Lance tugs down and kisses him.  This  
careful, cradling touch around his ear while Lance whispers, "Don't  
look," into his mouth.

The hall isn't bright, but Joey can still see the open door cracking  
light across Lance's skin.  A dark body he doesn't get to identify,  
because Lance won't let him loose.  *Don't look. Don't.    
don'tlookdon'tlook.*  Kisses him until he relaxes again, moves into  
the body against him.  *Don't look don't care don't let go of me.*    
That mouth, the body, this guy he thinks he might be fucking in love  
with fighting against every nerve in his body screaming *caught caught  
caught*.

*Relax. I love you. Don't look.*

And.  He was waiting for words, for a camera flash, for the someone in  
question to leave, but they (he/she/demon it) don't.  Lance is warm  
and soft against him, whispering filthy things into his skin.  He  
grinds against Joey's cock until he can't think about anything else.    
Frantic thrusts that push their cocks together.  Lance's hand on  
Joey's thigh slides in and rubs behind his balls.  Good like he might  
go blind.

Lance drives against him, pushes just right, and Joey comes.  Groans  
quietly against warm skin.  He goes to pull back and bend, go down on  
Lance and show him exactly how good that just felt, but Lance holds  
him in place.  Kisses him again and rubs frantically until he comes  
too, then lies in Joey's arms, panting.

They're quiet like that for a while, tangled and breathing down from  
the sex-high.  Nuzzling each other.

Lance says, "Satisfied?"

Joey flinches.  He'd be lying to claim he ever really forgot, but he  
was successfully not-thinking about their watcher.  Tense again,  
waiting for the (large, possibly atomic) shoe to drop.

"It would make more of a statement if you did it in public."

The voice is a soft English growl he should know.  He can feel Lance  
arch against him and then loosen enough that Joey can look where he  
wants.  So he looks.  Silhouetted, blurry.  Messy hair, cheekbones  
that he'd kill for.  And he should know who this is, but his sex-soft  
brain isn't providing anything as useful as a name.  

So he just looks.  Holds his face in an expression that he hopes is  
more 'fuck you' than 'what the fuck'.  Lance is writing letters onto  
his hip, telling him.  D-A-V-I-D B-O-W-I-E.  For a minute or so, the  
letters don't make any sense, and Joey hopes the confusion isn't  
showing on his face either.  He tries to look blank.  Waits for him to  
leave.

Except he doesn't.  Just stands there like this whole thing's a play  
and in a minute Joey or Lance is going to remember they have a line  
and keep going.  Until Lance gets out of bed and picks up his boxers,  
walks to the door holding them, still naked.  Lays both hands against  
that skinny chest and pushes him out.  Slams the door and leans  
against it.

Joey gets himself pulled together and over to Lance about the time  
Lance's knees give and he slides to the floor.  Both of them tangled  
again, on the floor, hugging quietly.  Lance's boxers are draped over  
their thighs.

They do get up, eventually, and feel feel around in the dark for the  
rest of their clothes.  Rub themselves down with the bedspread.  Joey  
prays they can find a bathroom between here and downstairs, because  
they both smell more like sex than he ever wants to in a public place.    
Kissing while they button each other up, but mostly not touching.    
Lance is shakier than he's letting on, or maybe hysterical, because  
every so often he lets out something that might be a laugh.

Neither of them tucks their shirts in, but he thinks the party's  
probably reached the point where formalwear starts to look pretty  
post-sex even on the people who kept their clothes on.  He should  
probably be grateful he's in an industry full of guys who live in t-  
shirts and jeans.  It makes his occasional fashion disasters less  
important.

Just.  At the top of the stairs, in the dark, he wraps himself around  
Lance and hugs him for ages.  Face in his hair.  

He could back up now.  Step into the light and pull Lance with him,  
and they could kiss in a place where everyone can see them.  

He really feels like he could.


End file.
